


Moment of clarity

by AngelofPerdition



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Spirits, idek, life after death, not a reincarnation fic, or something, they're just like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:20:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelofPerdition/pseuds/AngelofPerdition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire leans against the doorframe, his eyes sharp and for once not clouded by intoxication (and that's probably only because ghosts, spirits, whatever they are now, can't drink or get drunk in any way, but it's not like that matters now, at all). He seems to take in the scene before him, looking at his own dead form and then at Enjolras’s.</p><p>Or: Enjolras wakes up to find out he's dead and so is Grantaire and the rest except Marius. And the republic was never Grantaire's cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moment of clarity

He doesn’t know why and how he wakes up in his own bed, in his own small apartment. Had it been a dream? Was it all yet to come? But it had all been so very vivid.

****

_(“Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?” “No.”)_

****

Surely, it couldn’t have been just a dream. Maybe it’d been vision of the future. Maybe he is about to die that way. But -

****

_(“Long live the republic! I am one of them.”)_

****

No. No, Grantaire would never come to stand by him like that. For all that Enjolras wants to believe in the drunkard, it was of no use. Grantaire did not believe in the republic.

****

_(“Finish both of us in one blow.”)_

****

And he would certainly not die for it, given the choice. And he had been given the choice, in the dream - because it must’ve been a dream, what else? In his dream, Grantaire had done what Enjolras would have done. There, even more proof it’d only been a dream. Grantaire would never do what Enjolras would do. Grantaire had contributed a chair - one chair - to the barricade, and nothing else.

****

The barricade - what is he _doing_ , sitting here in bed, thinking about some stupid dream? He’s supposed to be at the barricade, with his friends.

He rushes down the stairs, grabbing his jacket with him, bursts through the door - and comes to a screeching halt.

****

There’s no one. Not a soul. The sun is setting, and there is no one about. No one to be seen, not even behind the windows of the houses surrounding him.

An uncomfortable feeling settles in his stomach. What is this? Is this still a dream?

He doesn’t realize he’s walking until his feet have carried him to the barricade. It stands tall and proud, a red flag on top.

****

Even here, there’s no one. Not his friends, not the volunteers, not the National Guard. It has got to be another dream. He doesn’t like it. He would give anything just to see someone. Marius or Courfeyrac or Jehan or Bahorel, even Grantaire would be a godsend right now.

****

_(“Do you permit it?” Enjolras pressed his hand with a smile.)_

****

He rubs at his eyes, annoyed. It’d just been a dream for god’s sake.

****

When he looks up again, he nearly falls over. He’s not at the barricade anymore. He’s in the very room he died - and suddenly it doesn’t seem to make sense to say “ _died in his dream_ ”. Because he’s looking right at it. At himself, pinned to the wall by eight bullets, Grantaire at his feet, their eyes wide open. Dead.

****

He feels like he should, well, panic. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he feels, so he just stares at his dead self and his dead friend, who apparently _had_ loved the republic enough to die for it.

****

For some reason, there isn’t even a part of him that considers the possibility of this being a dream anymore.

He’s dead. Grantaire’s dead. That much is obvious. He wonders about the rest. He hasn’t seen their dead bodies. Does that mean they’re still alive? He hopes so.

****

He looks at Grantaire - or, what used to be Grantaire. It feels weird to leave him like that, with his eyes open wide. He crouches down next to him, suddenly feeling a confusing wave of grief, guilt and gratitude washing over him.

Grief, because Grantaire had been his friend, despite how he’d frustrated him to no end (or maybe, he thinks, maybe even because of that).

Guilt, because he’d treated him so badly. He’d treated him like he was worth nothing, and in the end, Grantaire had come back for him, died at his side. Enjolras didn’t feel like he deserved that.

And gratitude because he had come back. Gratitude because he’d stayed, for some reason, no matter how badly Enjolras had treated him. Gratitude because, really, Grantaire had been the only one who’d been able to get Enjolras off his high horse sometimes.

****

He reaches out to close his friend’s eyes - his friend, who he should’ve shown more appreciation to while he was alive - but his hand passes right through Grantaire’s forehead.

****

“Huh.”

****

Enjolras whips around at the sound, nearly falling over.

****

Grantaire leans against the doorframe, his eyes sharp and for once not clouded by intoxication (and that's probably only because ghosts, spirits, whatever they are now, can't drink or get drunk in any way, but it's not like that matters now, at all). He seems to take in the scene before him, looking at his own dead form and then at Enjolras’s.

****

“Apparently gods lose their immortality when they fight along common men,” he says eventually, more to Enjolras’s dead body than Enjolras himself. Or maybe to no one.

****

“I am not a god, Grantaire,” Enjolras disagrees nonetheless. “Nor would I make a very good one, I’m afraid.”

****

For the first time since Grantaire entered the room, he looks at Enjolras.

“You do know the stories about the gods, do you not?” he asks, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Would you say that any of them make very good gods? They’re as corrupted as we mere mortals are. You would be an improvement to the real Apollo.”

****

He closes his eyes for a second and smiles, as if he’s thinking of something amusing.

Then he’s serious again. “If you were a god, you would deserve it. You died for your cause. The cause that made you burn with passion when you even just thought about it, that made your eyes flame when you talked about it. I can’t think of something nobler.”

****

“Then you would deserve it, too,” Enjolras says. “You, too, died for the republic.”

****

To his surprises, Grantaire laughs.

****

“What?” Enjolras asks indignantly. He doesn’t like feeling as if he’s being laughed at.

****

Grantaire crosses the distance between them in three steps, and suddenly he’s very close. Had they been alive, Enjolras would’ve been able to feel his breath on his face, and it makes him feel warm and uncomfortable, even though he can’t.

****

Grantaire touches his hand (and their shoulders sag a little with relief at that, glad they can at least still touch each other) and tangles their fingers together. He trails the fingers of his other hand over Enjolras’s cheek.

****

“Apollo,” he murmurs, shaking his head, but not taking his eyes off Enjolras’s own. They’re burning with something Enjolras is scared to name, and it would make his heart race if he still had one.

****

“Apollo,” Grantaire says again. “I died for what I believed in. What, out of everything you’ve learned about me in all the time we’ve been acquaintanced, gives you any reason to believe it was the republic?”

****

There is no mistaking his words. Even without the sudden clarity that had come over Enjolras the minute he’d seen his own dead body, and still hadn’t left, anyone would’ve known what Grantaire meant.

****

And maybe Enjolras has always known Grantaire hadn’t come to the meetings because he enjoyed the discussions. Maybe he had always known Grantaire really didn’t give a damn about the revolution. But he had thought Grantaire came for the company, for the booze, to annoy the hell out of Enjolras.

****

Never had he thought Grantaire had meant it when he’d said “I believe in you.”

Never had he thought that _he_ was Grantaire’s cause.

****

And now Enjolras knows, and he sees.

****

And he has no idea what to do about it.

He’s not good at this, never has been. Courfeyrac had always been able to charm the ladies, and Jehan could win anyone over with his poetry, but Enjolras had no idea how to handle this. Feelings toward another person.

****

Grantaire isn’t waiting for anything, it seems. He’s closed his eyes and leans his forehead against Enjolras’s.

****

Then footsteps can be heard on the stairs, and Grantaire pulls back with a smile that’s both wry and contented, if such a thing is possible.

****

The door opens to reveal Joly and Bahorel, who smile sadly when they see their friends.

“You too, huh?” Bahorel says. “Come on, the rest is downstairs.”

****

“Who is the rest?” Enjolras asks. “Who else?”

****

“Everyone,” Joly tells them with another sad smile. “Except Marius.”

****

Everyone. It hits Enjolras like a blow to the chest. Everyone. Joly, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan, Bossuet, Combeferre, Courfeyrac... And Eponine, and Gavroche, too. They’d all followed him, and he’d led them to their death.

****

Grantaire squeezes his hand and Enjolras looks at him. Grantaire’s face doesn’t betray much of his feelings, but his eyes...

Bright blue eyes that say _It’s not your fault. I followed you to my death and I’d do it again without a second’s doubt. As would the rest._

****

Enjolras squeezes back.

 **  
**They follow Joly and Bahorel downstairs, to their friends. They don’t let go of each other’s hands.


End file.
